


Years

by Bullfinch



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games)
Genre: (technically also post-relationship), 7k words of absolutely nothing, Pre-Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-08
Updated: 2020-03-08
Packaged: 2021-02-28 20:07:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,649
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23072950
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bullfinch/pseuds/Bullfinch
Summary: A long, bloody battle and afterwards Hawke and Fenris are still, again, figuring each other out.
Relationships: Fenris/Male Hawke
Comments: 6
Kudos: 24





	Years

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: In continuity with [Anastomosis](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14905061/chapters/34522433)—contains **major spoilers** for that story so please read it first if you are planning to do so. The dynamic here will make less sense if you read this first.
> 
> I should be working on another original piece rn but that original piece is very pornographic which makes it difficult to write. So instead have this straight from the ol’ lizard brain

He shouldn’t be facing an arvaarad and a saarebas by himself but if they reach the front lines more will die. So here he is. 

It’s been raining all week and the downpour has swelled again this evening; his boots slip in the mud as he trudges through the field, crushed stems of wheat ground under his heels. Even the effort of staying upright taxes him. How long since the fighting started? It doesn’t matter. He must keep going. They’re Qunari.

Water and sweat stick to his skin beneath the leather armor, runnels of it trickling down his neck, his ribs, his spine. He’s worked hard these past few days but, like the rain, the tasks demanded of him have yet to relent. The Inquisitor is not fond of the Marches or him and the detachment she sent bordered on insulting—two dozen soldiers, against a Qunari vanguard? He felt badly seeing them riding up in a single straggling line, knowing what they were to face. It was fortunate, then, that he is on good terms with the Iron Bull, who (though unable to come himself) smuggled several Chargers across the Waking Sea to the green forests north of Wycome. Also fortunate is the Grand Enchanter’s near-caustic relationship with the Inquisitor. A full complement of twenty mages arrived from Starkhaven two days ago to support them.

The sky lights up and a nettled roll of thunder rumbles across the swampy fields as he trudges onward. Wycome should have prepared their defenses here, where the vanguard is putting in to land. Qunari guerrilla techniques have been honed over decades in Seheron and once in the forests they’re impossible to stomp out. But Wycome didn’t want to listen and he didn’t have long to convince them because he’s technically still a fugitive. So here they are, on the Earl of Renvally’s mud-stomped lands, trying to nip things in the bud because nobody else will do it. (Even the Earl almost booted them out without a second thought, until the Charger lieutenant appeared with a single singed boot in hand and tossed it onto the marble tile. _This is all that was left of my scout!_ he shouted. It took only a few more gory details before the Earl gave in. The boot, of course, belonged to Krem himself and had been knocked over into the fire the night before after a period of drunken revelry.) 

Krem has been invaluable this week. His Tevinter military-trained knowledge of Qunari tactics brought them victory in the initial forays. Still, the entire keep has been dreading the inevitable full-scale assault, and for good reason. They’re Qunari. In truth he isn’t sure how it’s going. The sun set hours ago and the grounds are shrouded in darkness, rainclouds smothering the light of the moon and stars. He simply asks where the fighting is and goes there. 

This, right now, is different. He’s fought two saarebas so far tonight. It took the help of ten mages to kill the first, and the second seven mages because three were killed in the initial clash. They’re too spread-out now; he could either waste time trying to gather a handful or meet the third saarebas far out, where no one else would be there to get hurt. The scout Skinner said the pair were still on the ship. The quickest way is through the fields, but it occurs to him that the _Qunari_ may have taken the road to avoid the damned mud, and an arch smile rises to his face. How defeating it would be to drag his exhausted body all the way to the bay only to discover the saarebas is back at the keep, decimating their forces. But he must try. His legs ache from running, his arms from swinging his blade with the force required to wound a Qunari. His chest from the protracted fighting, from heaving in breaths as his implacable foes bear down on him, ceaseless as waves off the sea. He’s breathing hard now, pushing himself through the slippery mud. Has to cut them off. No one else is as uniquely equipped as he to kill a saarebas. 

The clouds shift and the moon gasps for air, wan light spilling down over the fields and the forests beyond. He halts, scanning. There’s movement everywhere, glittering sheets of rain pouring down over the earth. How is he supposed to spot the saarebas, in the rain and dark? This was foolish. He pauses and forces himself to take a breath, his sore ribs expanding inside his armor, and blinks water out of his eyes. 

There. One figure—two, crossing the fields ahead. It might simply be reinforcements, but simple reinforcements would not be segregated away on the ship. He changes his heading to cut them off. Tired. His body is so tired. 

Two figures. The moonlight gleams off of brass chains and horn-caps. Doubt seizes his gut. Why did he come here alone? This would be much easier with allies. His feet carry him forward still, because now that he’s here he must try. They see him coming and pause. Perhaps they respect his solitary crusade. That makes them nearly as foolish as he is. The arvaarad is at the fore, spear in hand, raindrops trickling down the virgin blade.

In the back is the saarebas, chained as always. A flash of lightning crosses the sky and illuminates her briefly, the hunched shoulders, the bowed head. Like a gaatlok bomb waiting to explode. She only needs her arvaarad to light the fuse.

The arvaarad appraises him with eyes dark as the rainclouds above. “You come alone.”

Obvious, but that’s the Qunari way and a barked retort would only miss the mark. “Yes.”

Then the arvaarad’s eyes narrow, and he shifts, readying his spear. “Saarebas,” he says. 

Not his saarebas. It’s an accusation. _Dangerous thing._ Not unexpected; the brands are difficult to hide completely. “Yes,” Fenris says again. Pointless to explain. The arvaarad will be dead in moments. (Or he will, and it’s pointless either way.)

The arvaarad steps forward and Fenris draws his sword. 

The saarebas still stands at the back. One at a time, then. The arvaarad jabs, and Fenris deflects it, letting the shaft grind along the strong of his blade. He steps in, leveling the blade and putting all his strength into a thrust ( _tired_ —his body is so tired). The arvaarad twists and the blade glances off his armor. Fenris backs off instantly, and the arvaarad’s palm-thrust falls short.

They face each other. Fenris would like this to be a measured fight but that’s precisely why it won’t be. No man or elf can match a Qunari’s stamina. The spear jabs again—and again and again. Fenris falls back, tracking the arvaarad’s advance through the rain, his boots sliding on mud. No good. He’ll never kill his opponent this way. 

A flash of lightning. Fenris reacts before he even registers the spear-tip plunging toward his eye. Almost fast enough—the edge of the blade gashes his cheek open, and as the thunder rumbles he charges in, driving through sheets of rain almost as warm as the blood spilling down his face. 

The Qunari withdraws his spear and they clash. Fenris pushes, throwing out strikes he knows won’t connect, praying the battle rush keeps his exhausted body going long enough to finish the fight. Humans are easy. One human can’t kill him after he puts his arm through their chest. But a Qunari could grab his neck and squeeze and he isn’t even sure which one of them would die first. If the arvaarad is surprised at Fenris’s ferocity he doesn’t show it. The blows aren’t particularly hard to block. Fenris is tired and slow and he doesn’t press any of them, letting his blade bounce off the spear-haft before he hauls it back and swings again. 

The arvaarad waits for him to exhaust himself. At this rate, it won’t be long. Fenris hardly knows what he’s doing. Attacking so he won’t have to defend, to risk losing an eye or something worse to that spear. His blade bashes into the spear-haft again, again and again. Rain lashes them both, glimmering in the moonlight where it collects on the arvaarad’s armor. Beautiful in a way, Fenris thinks to himself absently. He senses this will be over very soon. He’s only getting sloppier, and it won’t be long before the arvaarad punishes him for it. 

So he uses the last trick he has left and invokes the lyrium.

It burns so hot he imagines the rain on his skin turning to steam. Too much strain from facing the two saarebas earlier. From keeping himself alive in all the skirmishes since. The shout he lets out is half pain, half battle-cry, his blade blazing so bright it rivals the lightning-strikes that cross the sky. 

When it meets the arvaarad’s spear-haft the weapon splits in two with a _crack_. The arvaarad, thrown off-balance, loses his footing. Fenris levers the sword back and thrusts. 

He’s tired and loses his strength halfway through; the sword pierces the exposed flesh at the base of the arvaarad’s throat but the momentum falls off and it glances off the hard-stop of his vertebra, lodging in the dense, muscled flesh with most of the blade still on Fenris’s side instead of sticking out the back of the arvaarad’s shoulder. _Venhedis._ Fenris, with great effort, wrenches the blade out, but not before the arvaarad’s hand wraps around his neck. 

They stumble and fall. Fenris lands hard on his back, his sword-hilt falling out of his hand. Doesn’t matter. It won’t help him kill the arvaarad faster. The Qunari flings a hand out to catch himself and his grip relents for a split-second. It must be enough. Fenris brings his knees up to the arvaarad’s chest and shoves and it works, the grip on his neck breaking. He flips half-over and scrambles away, pulling himself through the mud. 

Thick fingers wrap around his ankle and yank, dragging Fenris back. He crawls again doggedly, only to be yanked again. It’s all right. He doesn’t need to win. Just needs to stall long enough for the arvaarad to die. The Qunari grabs the back of his armor and hauls him in, and Fenris throws a blind elbow behind him, misses the mark, tries again. Hits but it isn’t strong enough. The arvaarad heaves him onto his back and once more wraps a hand around his neck.

Too weak. It won’t kill him. Good. Fenris squints against the rain falling into his eyes and then the arvaarad looms over him, blocking out the moon and stars. Blood falls from the rent in his throat, splattering onto Fenris’s face and armor. Bubbles rise from the wound. His windpipe is severed. It’s over. 

The arvaarad gazes down at Fenris, fingers clasped loosely at his neck. Fenris meets his night-black eyes. The words pass between them without being said. _I’ve won._

The arvaarad collapses. Fenris grunts at the weight—a Qunari in plate armor is enough to knock the wind out of him. But he shoves the corpse away without ceremony and rises to his hands and knees, searching for his sword. He’s breathing hard from the onslaught of blows he rained down during the engagement. Damn, he’s _tired._

His sword is there and he grasps it, trickles of rain struggling through the streaks of mud as he staggers to his feet. The saarebas is still there. She received no orders and stands with her head bowed. Fenris eyes her, getting his breath back. Hard to see in the dark but her lips must be sewn, as they all are. He feels badly for a moment and wishes he didn’t have to kill her. But he must. She could wipe them all out. 

When he takes a step forward she throws her head back and screams. 

A flash of lightning illuminates the blood at her mouth where she must have torn the threads. Fenris begins to run but knows he won’t make it in time and when the thunder rolls in it comes with a deluge of crackling electricity that pours over him like a waterfall. 

He falls to his hands and knees, skidding in the mud. The lyrium leaps to his aid reflexively and keeps him alive, lashing out to eat the saarebas’s magic. It burns in his skin, _burns,_ and he grits his teeth against it, unable to move. The lyrium shields him but her magic is too powerful and it won’t stop coming—her bound hands extended toward him, her body an endless reserve. Fenris gasps in a breath and even the air is full of static as it fills his lungs. He came here alone, in a moment of stupendous idiocy. There’s no one coming to help him. One of them will die here, it’s as simple as that. 

He plants one hand in front of the other and crawls.

One step. Two. The electricity snaps around him and he moans, collapsing to an elbow. It _hurts._ The magic and the lyrium both. But he tries again, still clutching his sword as he hauls himself through the mud. What will he do once he reaches her? This is absurd. He hasn’t a chance. 

“FENRIS!”

He can hardly raise his head but manages it and finds Hawke sprinting through the field and skidding to a stop, just in time to put his hands up and block the saarebas’s next barrage of magic. 

Fenris gasps in ragged relief. Her spell has released him. It seems she can only focus on one of them at a time. Because she’s still chained, he suspects. Were the arvaarad still alive to free her he would be dead already and Hawke soon after. Hawke might still fall, as things are now. His hands are out, braced, lightning-rods for the saarebas’s unceasing onslaught. Bolts of electricity fly off to either side, scorching the ground where they strike. But his face is tight with strain already. It’s a good thing he has facility with lightning magic, or else he might not withstand it. He isn’t that strong.

Which is why Fenris needs to do something, and he stumbles to his feet, sword-tip carving a furrow in the mud as he drags it with him. The saarebas turns and electricity seizes him again, sending him tumbling to the ground once more. _Hurts_. The lyrium burns him deep into his bones. 

A hulking shape passes through the darkness beside him and the magic stops all at once, and the night fills with a keening wail. Fenris looks up, rubbing rain out of his eyes and smearing mud on them instead. Hawke stands before her with half the broken spear in his hands. The haft is buried deep in her chest and Fenris can only imagine the bloodied tip sticking out the other side. Straight through the heart. Hawke isn’t a blood mage anymore but must remember well where a Qunari’s heart is, high and a little to the right. Fenris knows because Danarius taught him decades ago. Hawke knows because he knew blood, knew exactly where the engine of it lay in all of the hundreds he killed over the years. 

He rips the spear out and backs away, ready to strike again. He doesn’t need to. The saarebas curls in on herself slowly as dark blood cascades down her robes. It takes some time but she falls, first to her knees, then to the ground, unmoving. 

Hawke throws the spear down and rushes to Fenris’s side. “Are you insane? What fucking _possessed you_ to come out here alone?!”

Fenris starts to reply but finds himself being gathered up and embraced so he waits a moment until Hawke releases him and then sits back gingerly. “It seemed a good idea at the time.”

Hawke sighs. “It was a shit idea, but I probably would have done the same thing so I can’t really be upset about it.” 

“You _did_ do the same,” Fenris points out, and gestures behind him. “I don’t see any reinforcements on your heels.”

It’s true. There are no Inquisition soldiers or College mages rushing up to aid them. Hawke glances over his shoulder, wincing a bit. “Well. There was no time.”

“What an extraordinary coincidence. That was the very same reason _I_ came out here alone.”

Hawke lifts an eyebrow at him and they say nothing for a moment as the rain spatters down around them onto the swampy ground, the clouds casting them in darkness before the moonlight struggles through and touches Hawke’s face again. Hawke grins suddenly. “You’re a stubborn bastard.” 

“No more than you ,” Fenris retorts. 

“Are you hurt? Besides…” 

Hawke reaches up to brush Fenris’s face, just below the gash. It burns now that the thrill of the fight is over, and Fenris grimaces, guiding Hawke’s hand away gently. “Just that. The blood belongs to him.” 

The blood coating the front of his armor, and Fenris jerks his head at the dead arvaarad. Hawke nods. “Right. Then let’s get back to the keep.” 

He rises and picks Fenris up off the ground without being asked. Still strong as an ox from his days as a blood mage, when the power came from his body and thus he kept it honed as one does a weapon. He hasn’t broken his regimen even after the demon’s eviction, and Fenris allows himself to be lifted and placed on his feet. Too exhausted to complain. 

The going is slow. Because of him. Hawke navigates the mud without difficulty but for Fenris it has become nearly insurmountable. The endless skirmishes today drained most of what he had in him and the lyrium just now took whatever was left. His legs shake at every step, his boots sliding when he tries to plant them. 

The first time he nearly falls he catches himself on Hawke’s arm, and Hawke is there in a split-second to steady him. Fenris holds on for a moment, pushing rain-soaked hair out of his face. “My apologies,” he mutters. 

Hawke appraises him with narrowed eyes. “You’re in no shape to keep fighting, are you?”

“I will be all right,” Fenris tells him. “I need only a few moments’ rest.”

_“That’s_ bollocks.”

Fenris blinks and straightens, affronted. “And what about you? You’ve been fighting all evening as well, will you turn in and let everybody else finish the job?”

“Thinking about it,” Hawke admits. “Been casting so much my head feels like it’s in a thousand pieces. Couldn’t dig up a spell right now to save my life. Why d’you think I went for the spear?” 

Fenris looks up at him, exasperated. “Foolish enough you ran out here alone to face a saarebas. You’re a skilled mage, Hawke, but you’re not terribly strong.”

Hawke presses a hand to his chest. “You wound me.”

“I am being serious. And then you admit you couldn’t cast a spell even if you tried.”

Hawke flings his hands up. “What was I supposed to do? Skinner said you’d run off by yourself!”

There’s a hitch in the exchange and Hawke looks away, wiping rain from his face. Perhaps they shouldn’t be talking about this right now. Fenris sighs, knowing full well he hasn’t any right to make accusations like this. “I apologize. You wanted to help. I understand.”

“I seem to remember a certain someone sticking around in the Fade to save my arse, despite incredible danger and no hope of escape whatsoever.”

Fenris stiffens. The man is insufferable sometimes. “I was not thinking clearly,” he snaps. 

“Then neither was I,” Hawke shoots back. “Also, you should let me carry you. It’ll be faster.”

He is indisputably correct and Fenris is too exhausted to even pretend to argue. Instead he lets out a long breath and climbs onto Hawke’s back.

It is faster. Hawke’s mind may be tired but his body plainly isn’t, and he ferries Fenris through the rain at a steady clip. Fenris sets his jaw now and then when the lyrium burn flares up again—too many blows deflected, too much magic scattered or devoured. His grip tightens around Hawke’s neck.

“You all right?” Hawke asks.

“It’s the lyrium,” Fenris mumbles into Hawke’s shoulder.

Hawke doesn’t say anything for a moment. There’s nothing he can do about it. Nothing either of them can do about it. 

“I’m sorry,” he says finally.

“It’s all right,” Fenris replies. 

The rain falling over them isn’t so bad anymore. Fenris feels it washing the mud from his face and hair, and he starts to relax, lulled by the rhythm of Hawke’s even pace. Hawke’s cloak is soaked through beneath his cheek but he rests against it all the same. He dreads the return to the keep and prays the journey there is enough for some degree of recovery. He wants to keep fighting as long as the Qunari continue the attack. But his body may not hold up much longer.

_“Oi!”_

Fenris lifts his head, squinting through the rain. Skinner runs toward them, splashing through the mud. She draws to a halt, bending over to catch her breath. “You’re alive!” she pants. “Never been so glad to see you. Thought I’d killed the both of you, with how stupid I was blabbing about the saarebas.” 

Hawke shrugs his big shoulders. “I wouldn’t have worried. It’ll take more than a saarebas to kill us.” 

“We both nearly died,” Fenris points out.

“Well, it doesn’t matter anymore.” Skinner gives them a relived grin. “The fighting’s over. We’ve won.”

Hawke relaxes, tension slipping from his body. He shouldn’t yet, but he isn’t as experienced with Qunari. “They’re all dead?” Fenris presses. “You’ve searched the forest?”

“’Course we have,” Skinner says, displaying a mild affront. That’s right. She and Krem work together. “Some probably got back to the ship. But we think that’s all right.”

Fenris nods. They can head back up the coast and report to the body of the fleet that they met resistance. With luck the Qunari will abandon this arm of the assault. Hawke follows Skinner back through the fields. Perhaps he is imagining it but Fenris thinks the rain is starting to abate a little. No more fighting. He can let his body rest.

“We’d have been sunk, you know,” Skinner says conversationally. “Fenris. If you weren’t here. Everybody says you were like a brushfire out there, burning in the night. You couldn’t be stopped.” 

“We were all fighting,” Fenris mumbles. 

“Some of us better than others,” Hawke puts in. _“I,_ for instance, was _almost_ useless.”

That makes Skinner laugh, and she punches him in the arm (a solid smack that makes Hawke slip a bit in the mud—she must be used to doing that with the Iron Bull). “I saw you, you were in there with everybody else.”

“I suppose I’m big enough to make a good distraction,” he replies airily. 

“And you lived!” Skinner says. “That’s something!”

“Please, your _effusive_ praise is making me blush.” He grins down at her. Fenris smiles against his shoulder. 

The sound of the rain is almost soothing now that the threat is gone. Less soothing is the insistent soreness blossoming at every spot where his armor (and the lyrium) deflected a Qunari blow. The brands, too, continue to flicker and flare without warning. The final confrontation against that saarebas drained them, and they’re unstable now, like a muscle that starts to quiver after too much hard use. Hawke stumbles once and the jar makes Fenris grunt. 

“That hurt?” Hawke asks quietly.

“It’s all right,” Fenris answers. “I’m just tired.” 

The keep appears as the clouds part, the rain glittering on the stone like an Orlesian veil. No more shouts of battle or figures sprinting across the walls. It truly is over. “You may put me down,” Fenris tells Hawke.

Hawke glances back. “You sure? I saw you earlier.”

“Yes,” Fenris affirms. “I will be fine on my own.”

Hawke pauses a second as he walks. Then: “Don’t tell me you’re embarrassed to be seen riding around on my back.”

He is embarrassed. “Don’t be ridiculous,” Fenris snaps. “You’ve carried me all the way here, there’s no need to burden yourself any longer.” 

“Fenris, carrying you is like adding an extra turnip or two to the sack on market day. You’re not very heavy.”

The counter works, as Fenris hasn’t the slightest idea how to respond. “A—turnip?”

“Or two,” Hawke reminds him. 

“Hawke—I’m not a _turnip!”_

“You’re half my size! I’m not even tired!” 

Skinner chuckles. “Listen to you two. Like an old married couple.”

_That_ is embarrassing. Fenris gives up on this strategy and instead tries to wriggle out, but Hawke’s arms are wrapped too firmly around his thighs and he doesn’t get very far at all. Resigned, he sags against Hawke’s back again. It probably is faster this way. 

He thought being carried around like a child would be the worst of it but it’s not. When they enter the keep someone lets out a whistle and somebody else a shout and those who are still there in the courtyard, a couple of handfuls, cheer him as he is borne toward the keep itself. 

Skinner looks up with a triumphant smile. “See? I told you!”

The whole thing is absurd. They all fought as hard as he did. They just don’t glow when they do it. Skinner opens the doors for them and the atrium is a blessed relief—an escape from the storm at last. For the first time in hours Fenris doesn’t have a downpour falling on his head. The doors swing firmly shut and Hawke sets him down gently. Fenris extends stiff legs, grasping Hawke’s arm without thinking for support.

Krem pokes his head into the room, still in armor, and he salutes. “Evening.”

“Evening,” Hawke replies. “Heard we beat them back.”

“That we did. Never doubted it.” Krem thumps his breastplate. Fenris can’t quite bring himself to roll his eyes. _He_ certainly doubted it. But—

_“I_ heard you killed fifty Qunari by yourself.” Krem nods at Fenris. “Heard you faced five saarebas at once and lived.”

Fenris blinks. Were he in better shape he could come up with a witty riposte. As it is, all he says is, “You heard what?”

Krem comes up and claps him on the shoulder. “I’m joking. Come on, you’re plastered in mud. Follow me.”

Fenris follows, leaving Hawke and Skinner in the atrium. The rain helped but, considering his armor is still filthy, not enough. Krem ascends a sweeping staircase and Fenris climbs behind him as one elderly and infirm. Every step hurts. Can’t remember the last time he had this many aches and pain. One mercenary job, perhaps, a couple of years ago. The captain of the company was most grateful for his aid and helped him to relax afterward. He thinks he’s too tired for even that now. At least nobody’s here to see him. Except Krem, who descends to grasp his elbow like a dutiful grandson. 

Fenris has a flash of envy for Krem’s youth, which is silly because Fenris isn’t all that old (although Krem is a good ten years the younger). He accepts the help begrudgingly. “Thank you.”

“Anytime,” Krem says, eyeing him. “Er…should I be worried?”

Fenris glances up. “Hm?”

“You’re sort of glowing.”

So he is. It heralds another wave of burning pain that runs down the brands like a lover’s tracing fingers. Fenris hisses through his teeth. _“Venhedis.”_

“Ooh, someone’s fancy,” Krem remarks. That’s right. Soporati don’t swear in Tevene. “Anything I can do for it?”

Fenris sighs. “No. I overtaxed myself, that’s all. Perhaps…a few hours of rest.”

“You take all the hours you need,” Krem tells him. “Don’t have any more Qunari to worry about.” 

They make the top of the stairs and Fenris expects them to tack left or right toward the guest rooms. But instead Krem shoves open the ornate wooden door in front of them and jerks his head. “Here we are.”

Fenris wanders inside, a bit mystified. Surely this is too much. His rest so far has been taken on whatever bedroll was nearest. And now Krem is offering him the Earl’s chambers.

The room is unnecessarily large. A dozen candles illuminate walls hung with deeply banal paintings of pastoral scenes as well as a four-poster bed heaped with more blankets than any one man could need. Someone’s even brought his things and left them by the night table. Fenris discovers he’s tracking mud onto the lush red carpet and steps back. “Please. There’s no need to make the Earl even more furious with us.”

Krem guffaws. “You let me handle the Earl. The room’s all yours, you deserve it.”

Fenris rolls his eyes. “I don’t deserve it more than any of the others. Everyone here risked their lives.”

“It’s true, we did. But you were the first on the field, everywhere they popped up. That meant a lot.”

Fenris rubs his forehead, annoyed. They all risked their necks. It doesn’t matter—

“I know. You feel like you didn’t do anything.” Krem folds his arms. “I felt that way too. Took a long time of people telling me different ’til I got it. So just take my word this time. All right?”

“Very well,” Fenris mutters. He’s too tired to argue.

Krem departs and closes the door behind him. Fenris stands there for a moment at the edge of the carpet. The lyrium has settled and he doesn’t want to upset it by moving again. But he must, and when he does it’s his sore and shaking muscles that complain. He groans to himself in the empty room, working at the buckles on his armor. The breastplate tumbles to the floor first, followed by one vambrace, then the other. Next come the greaves, and then he must bend over to unlace and remove his muddy boots. _That_ sends an angry, dull ache washing over his back and legs and he gives up quickly, tumbling to his knees and then flipping onto his arse to yank them off. He stays down there to get out of the rest of his clothes and then crawls over to the washroom, using the threshold to drag himself upright.

The tub is empty. Of course it’s silly to expect anyone would have filled it, but the mere thought of a hot bath makes him yearn as deeply as he ever has for anything else. There is a silver basin full of water, and lined up behind it a pile of soft linens and an array of fine soaps in a half-dozen colors. 

A mirror hangs above the table. Fenris stares at himself for a long moment. Most places he stays don’t have mirrors. In his green eyes the reflections of candles flicker and gleam. The tie is still in his hair and he tugs it out, letting grimy silver strands fall over his ears. The gash in his cheek looks ugly but has stopped bleeding, and he probs it gently with a wince. That should be cleaned. 

The water is lukewarm, but it’s far better than nothing. He starts with the mud, scrubbing it out of his hair and off of the rest of him. Somehow it managed to get everywhere despite his armor covering him from head to toe. It’s a slow and painstaking process; when he moves too quickly everything hurts again so he does it at a snail’s pace, tossing away one cloth when it’s irretrievably filthy and taking another from the pile. He’s just about finished when there’s a knock at the bedroom door.

“Fenris?” the voice says. “It’s me.”

Hawke. “Come in,” Fenris calls.

The washroom door is still open so their eyes meet as Hawke enters, and he stops. “Oh. Hello.”

“Hello,” Fenris says. “I already have water, but thank you.”

Hawke is holding a bronze basin and approaches. “Mine’s better.”

He’s clean and in fresh clothes and plainly doesn’t have all the aches and pains that have slowed Fenris down. Damned mages. It’s only as he enters the washroom Fenris notices the bronze basin is steaming. He seizes the cloth hanging over its edge and lays it over the back of his neck.

The heat is incredible as it diffuses over his skin and seeps into his sore muscles. Fenris closes his eyes and grasps the edge of the table. “Thank you,” he mutters. 

“You’re welcome,” Hawke says. “Would you like some help?”

Fenris nods and Hawke steps forward, lathering the cloth with soap. He steadies Fenris’s shoulder with one hand and rubs him down with the other. His hands, like the rest of him, are large and Fenris leans into them. It’s nice to be touched and moved like this by someone else, after he’s just spent so long on the battlefield—often alone, one of a very few soldiers with any hope of standing up to a Qunari in a toe-to-toe fight, desperately hoping his body would hold out. 

Hawke’s touch is even and sure. He performs a bit for the others—as with Skinner earlier, talking about turnips. But he’s never quite regained the same humor he had in Kirkwall, back when Fenris first met him. It could just be because he’s older now. They both are. Fenris realizes then that while Hawke guides the cloth over his skin with confidence, he still delicately avoids Fenris’s chest and arse. Fenris rolls his eyes, grabs Hawke’s hand, and plants it on his breast. “You’ve missed a spot,” he says drily. 

Hawke snorts. “Forgive my neglect.”

They haven’t fucked since that mutual mistake back at Skyhold many weeks ago. It isn’t that they’ve been dancing around it; in fact, Fenris expects they’ll fuck again at some point. But they haven’t quite settled with each other yet. Fenris hated Hawke for four years (not precisely—hated and then forgot him), and Hawke hated _himself_ for the same amount of time. They’ve got some rebuilding to do. Still, the firm, assured pressure of Hawke’s hands on his chest feels much better than it’s got any right to. Fenris’s eyes flutter closed, and he presses himself into Hawke’s touch. 

Hawke moves closer and grasps Fenris’s waist to steady him. He lingers at Fenris’s chest, massaging him more than is strictly necessary for the purpose of washing up. It’s good, and Fenris bites his lip and nods, curling his fingers into Hawke’s shirt. Hawke’s hand glides down, to Fenris’s lower belly—rubbing in slow, firm circles, and Fenris inhales sharply, leaning into Hawke’s muscular chest. Hawke curls an arm around him, and then the cloth glides over his arse, his upper thighs…

Hawke laughs to himself, quietly in the small washroom. “You’re exhausted.”

Fenris stays where he is just a moment longer, letting his weight rest against Hawke’s bulk, his muscular chest; then he straightens with a sigh. It’s true, and there’s no point trying anything tonight. “I am,” he mutters.

“Get a good night’s sleep. Maker knows you haven’t had one in days.”

Also true. Too much preparation to do and not enough hands. Fenris is still covered in soap so he leans over, picks up the bronze basin, and empties it over his head. 

“Watch out—“ Hawke steps back, shielding himself from the splash. “Oi, thanks for getting water all over my dry trousers.”

But he’s smiling and Fenris smirks back. “You got to see me naked. A small price to pay, I think.”

He leaves the washroom and yanks a blanket off the bed with which to dry himself off. “I’ll remember that next time you want to see _me_ naked,” Hawke says, following him into the bedroom. “What to charge, is the question. Breakfast in bed?”

“Hm…that seems to me bit too ambitious. An extra sweetroll, perhaps,” Fenris says, scrubbing his hair dry.

He turns to find Hawke gazing at him open-mouthed. “Are you— _haggling_ with me?”

Fenris, wrapped in the blanket, shrugs. “I will not be taken for a fool, Hawke. Although a…demonstration might persuade me.”

Hawke grins and steps closer, takes Fenris’s hand and slides it under his shirt. “There. Convinced yet?”

Fenris runs his hand up through the soft, curled hair that covers Hawke’s stomach and chest, until finally his fingertips appear beneath the loosened laces of Hawke’s shirt. He lingers for a few long seconds, his fingers entwined in the dark hair; feels the steady _thud-thud_ of Hawke’s heart against his palm.

Then Hawke’s hand comes to rest over his, and Fenris stays for one moment longer—only one—before he steps away, pushing damp hair out of his face. “I need to rest.”

“Yes, you do,” Hawke says, with a soft smile. “Good night.”

“Good night, Hawke.”

Then he’s gone and Fenris has only enough wherewithal left to pull on a pair of underclothes before he crawls into bed. 

The mattress is down and Fenris nearly sinks into it. He can’t hold back a moan of pure, physical joy, and there’s nobody else here so he can’t even be embarrassed about it. He pulls all of the blankets over himself and then kicks one or two off so he doesn’t overheat in the night. 

It must have been something about the heat of the water. Or maybe it was Hawke’s hands. Fenris doesn’t know. But the aches and pains have begun to feel better, and his brands are dormant now. He hugs the pillow under his head and closes his eyes. How he would love to lie awake here simply to feel the exquisite pleasure of a soft mattress under his body, a heap of warm blankets covering him. But there’s nothing he can do about it, and he drifts into sleep almost at once.

——

Fenris wakes with a mouth full of cotton.

He squints against the first rays of dawn that splash directly across his face. Damn it all. Never closed the curtains last night, and through the window the sun rises over the forests to the east, lighting the room in orange and pink. 

Just as well. He should be helping anyway.

Fenris drags himself out of bed—literally, crawling onto the carpet and sitting upright to dig through his pack for some clothes. He tips his head back against the bed and closes his eyes again, dressing blindly. (He surfaces with his shirt backwards and must fix it.) 

Now to stand.

It takes nearly as much fortitude for him to rise and descend the stairs as it did last night for him to battle the vanguard. But he does it, grasping the banister with one hand. The soreness is a bit less insistent this morning but has stiffened his limbs now as well, and his bare feet shuffle over the cold stone floor at a snail’s pace. It might be worse than the hangover he had two years ago after celebrating a hard fought victory with a Tal-Vashoth company who, each being three times his size, were much better at holding their liquor than he. His friend Skorra was kind enough to rub his back as he vomited into the bushes the next morning. At least he isn’t going to throw up this time. But some food and water might do him good.

There are a few people awake at this hour—a couple of sleepy-looking mages pass him by with a wave, and a pair of Inquisition soldiers as well. One of them stops to shake his hand with a whisper of thanks. He doesn’t know what to say to her, but she’s gone before he has to think of anything. The kitchen is just ahead, radiating heat even from outside the doorway. Fenris approaches, glad for it in the cool morning air. 

Inside, to his surprise, he finds none other than Hawke. 

His broad back is turned; he works at the stove, flipping griddlecakes in two pans, dumping some spice over a third. A couple of plates on the table behind him are already stacked with the results of his labors. Fenris stands in the threshold for a moment, silent and trying not to be overwhelmed. He had imagined Hawke just like this in silly daydreams in Kirkwall— _years_ and years ago, when they were both much younger and Fenris could make himself giddy envisioning how things might be if he and Hawke were together. But they’ve both changed plenty since then and the daydream vanishes quickly, a wisp of morning mist chased away by the light of day. 

Hawke turns around with two pans in hand and starts so hard he nearly drops them. _“Fenris!_ Maker’s fucking tits.”

“Oh—I apologize. I did not mean to frighten you.” Fenris is drawn to the stacked plates as a moth to flame and takes a griddlecake in each hand, stuffing fully half of one into his mouth.

“Fenris, what are you doing here?” Hawke flips the pans over to replace what Fenris has just purloined and then sets them down, mildly alarmed. “It’s hardly dawn, you should still be asleep!”

Fenris swallows. “I awoke. The curtains were open.” He eats the other half. 

“And you didn’t go back to sleep.”

“I wanted to help,” he says, impolitely, his mouth still full of food.

“Help? What exactly did you think you’d be doing?”

Fenris stares at Hawke, who stares back. It’s a fair question. The planning, he was valuable there, with what he remembered of Seheron. And training the soldiers in the little time they had about what to do when faced with a Qunari footsoldier (run, mostly, and find help). 

“Here, let me make this easy,” Hawke says. “Are you a healer?”

“No.”

“And do you make better flapjacks than I do?”

_Flapjacks_. Southerners. Fenris shakes his head. His palate is refined; his skills, less so. But Hawke had parents and a brother and sister growing up. 

“Then you’re superfluous. In fact, the only use for you is eating some of these flapjacks before they go cold,” Hawke tells him. “Here, I used a bit too much flour this batch.”

He hands over a tall mug of water and Fenris chugs it down, unsure how to feel. Nobody’s ever called him _superfluous_ before. He starts on the second flapjack. “You’ve used cinnamon,” he notes.

“Indeed. The bastard’s got buckets of it in the pantry. Must be nice living this close to the Tevinter border.” He grins. “I plan to use up as much as I can before we leave. Then maybe take the rest with me, if I’m in the mood.”

Fenris is very fond of cinnamon, and he nods in agreement. His first instinct was to be insulted, but after thinking about it a half-second, he’s realized being unnecessary for once in his life is something of a relief.

Hawke dumps the contents of third pan onto the pile before grabbing Fenris’s shoulders and steering him from the kitchen. “Come on, let’s go.”

Fenris steals a final flapjack before they leave. Hawke is patient with his stiff pace and walks close beside him. It’s nice. A cup of water and a full belly have left him feeling in much better shape than he was only ten minutes ago.

“How did you get stuck doing kitchen work?” he inquires. 

“Oh, you know,” Hawke sighs. “Tried to help out healing for a bit but I’m a crap healer. And everybody was hungry for something besides dried meat and week-old bread.”

“It is…kind of you,” Fenris says. “To do this. I know you are tired as well.”

“Not too tired. It’s only my Fade-sense, the rest just needed a nap.” Hawke shrugs. “I can cook a bit, figured I might as will while everyone else was busy.”

Everyone else but him. “Are you sure there’s nothing I can do to help?” Fenris asks.

“I’m sure. I think anyone in the keep would chase you back into bed if you tried putting yourself to work.” Hawke’s hand comes to rest on his back. “You did more than your share last night.”

It still doesn’t feel quite right, but Fenris lets himself be guided back to his room. The mere sight of the bed blanks all thought of staying awake from his mind, and he pulls his shirt off over his head as Hawke hastily shuts the door behind them. His trousers are next as Hawke pulls the curtains closed to dim the room, a warm darkness settling over it. The bed calls to him again, but he pauses as Hawke waits by the door.

“Hawke,” he says.

Hawke looks up. “Hm?”

“Would you like to stay a moment?” Fenris says, and climbs into bed once again.

Hawke hesitates, lingering by the door. But then he comes over and sits on the edge of the bed, the mattress depressing under his weight. Fenris reaches one hand out from beneath the covers and rests it over Hawke’s. 

Hawke smiles softly, and Fenris twines their fingers together. In the last four years he’s traveled with mercenary companies sometimes, other times with clients in longer-term contracts. But much of the time he traveled alone. It was good—peaceful and freeing, and he doesn’t regret it. 

But he misses this. _Missed_ this, he supposes, because Hawke is with him now and they only seem to be getting closer by the day. He closes his eyes to feel it, the heavy blankets weighing down his entire body except for his hand resting over Hawke’s. 

When he finally wakes again the sun has passed its zenith and Hawke is gone. But it doesn’t matter. Fenris gazes out the window at the rain-soaked fields and the glittering ocean beyond. They can do it again tomorrow night, and the night after that. As long as they want it. As long as it takes. 


End file.
